


Melancholy Waters Lie

by brinnanza



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Anxiety, Cad's chill is fake you guys, Caduceus Clay Studiously Pretending He Has Any Chill Left, Character Study, Dungeons and Dragons and Deities: Fantasy Religion and You, Episode: c02e035 Dockside Diplomacy, Gen, Near Death Experiences, Nightmares, aka someone please help this fuzzy boi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 11:07:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16117139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: Caduceus reaches for the magic automatically, already murmuring a Calm Emotions spell under his breath, but there’s nothing left, no spark of divine to twine into the words. There’s a sharp, acrid tang of salt in his mouth and in his nose and he can’t breathe, can only drown, and he’lldie here, he’ll --Caduceus Clay and the immediate aftermath of episode 35: Dockside Diplomacy





	Melancholy Waters Lie

**Author's Note:**

> scootching in juuuuuust under the wire quick read this before the new episode starts and immediately josses the whole thing
> 
> title is from a poem "the city in the sea" by poe. working title for this fic was "dockside disaster-plomacy". eight episodes isn't quite enough to get a feel for cad's head (there is too much I still need to know _taliesin_ ) but here is a possible interpretation. thanks to ceridawn for looking this over for me.
> 
> I don't know anything about boats; don't @ me

Caduceus drips onto the deck of the ship the Mighty Nein has apparently commandeered and shivers. The once cool evening breeze has turned cold, and the already chilled temperature of Caduceus’s soaked clothes drops even further. The silk of his shirt is plastered to his chest, the long sleeve nearly touching the deck, and his trousers sag around his waist, the added weight of the water making already ill-fitting trousers sink lower. The salt water in his fur itches as it dries, and he longs for a cup of tea to chase away the chill that’s settled in him, twined into his bones like the ocean has grown roots to take hold inside of him. There isn’t time now, of course: Fjord needs healing. 

They all need healing.

Caduceus settles into his prayer, letting the Wildmother’s warm presence wash over him. It’s not quite a fitting substitute for tea, or for a night’s rest, but such things will have to wait until Caduceus is sure none of his companions will be rejoining the Wildmother just yet. The divine magic sews up everyone’s wounds and fades their bruises to day-old greens and purples. There’s not quite enough left in him for more than that, so when he feels the magic is spent, he pushes himself to his feet and follows the others downstairs, rifling through his satchel for his tea as he goes.

Instead of the pouch of dried tea leaves and wilting flower petals he expects to find, he pulls out a handful of slimy plant matter, soaked through. Well, that makes sense considering his satchel is hardly waterproof and it had been completely immersed more than once today. Tea is supposed to get wet though; that’s the whole idea so he’ll just -

Right. Salt water. 

The body of the man Jester had accidentally sunk the blade of her ax into still rests at the bottom of the stairs where she’d left it, and Caduceus reaches down to call upon the Wildmother to reclaim it, sparing an extra prayer for his favorite flowers if she happens to see fit. Lichen blooms across the body. It’ll take a bit for flowers to grow, but down here out of the wind, Caduceus’s shivers begin to ease. He is still too cold, tired and aching with both real and phantom pains, but even aided by the divine, life can only bloom so fast.

“Uh, Caduceus?” Caduceus rights himself and looks up to find Fjord giving him an odd look, confusion warring with exhaustion on his face. “I know you’ve got your whole dead people tea thing, but considering the close quarters, I thought we’d just -” He mimes tossing something overboard. “That’s the usual way.”

“Oh,” says Caduceus. “That makes sense.” There are creatures beneath the sea who can return a body to the Wildmother just as easily as his favored fungi. There’s no tea to be had that way though, and Caduceus suspects little else will properly warm him. “Do you mind if we let it grow for a few minutes first? I’m afraid I’m quite out of tea, and I think everyone could use a cup.”

Fjord lets out a slow breath. “Yeah, sure,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face. Weariness bleeds into his voice, his agreement born of apathy and exhaustion more than anything else. Fjord is a man rapidly approaching the end of his rope and consigning himself to free fall.

The feeling is not nearly as foreign to Caduceus as it might once have been.

Fjord moves along through the narrow passageway to join the others. Caduceus can hear them, their heavy footfalls, Jester’s high-pitched excitement and Caleb’s low, fond rumble, but he remains where he is, watching seedlings sprout through soft green and brown moss. 

The salt water will kill them, Caduceus thinks idly. When they drop the body and all its new growth over the side of the ship, they will all drown under the rush of seawater, choking on it as it floods his lungs and burns him from the inside out, each gasping breath finding more water instead of air until his body seizes up from the lack of oxygen.

Caduceus reaches for the magic automatically, already murmuring a Calm Emotions spell under his breath, but there’s nothing left, no spark of divine to twine into the words. There’s a sharp, acrid tang of salt in his mouth and in his nose and he can’t breathe, can only drown, and he’ll _die here_ , he’ll --

“Deuces, you coming or what?”

Caduceus blinks, drawn abruptly out of the memory. Beau is leaning out into the corridor, shoving a cracker into her mouth. “They’re like, fully stocked,” she’s saying, brushing cracker crumbs off onto her trousers. “It’s no Lavish Chateau, but it’s better than rations.” Beau disappears back around the corner, and Caduceus takes a deep breath. It still tastes of salt, but it doesn’t overwhelm him this time.

He leans down to pluck a few petals from the decaying body at his feet. There are a scant few blossoms - all he can really hope for in the absence of earth or fertile soil - but it should be enough for now.

\--

Below deck, the ship’s tiny hold is filled with half-burned papers and crates. Beyond that are several rows of bunks (sized for humans, as most things are), but enough for all of them, and beyond that is a small kitchen (“It’s called a galley,” Jester tells him, the day’s events having little apparent effect on her bubbly tone). The kitchen - the _galley_ \- isn’t much, just a makeshift sink, a few cupboards and barrels, and a small table, around which most of the group is clustered. 

Caduceus tries the tap and is delighted to find it produces fresh water. He pulls his kettle from his satchel and gives it a quick rinse before setting about making tea for everyone. There are plenty of cups in the galley’s cupboards, and a quick tap from Caduceus’s staff has the water heating nicely. While he waits for the tea to steep, he pokes through the ship’s food stores. It’s simple fare designed to travel well, nuts, dried fruit and salted meat and such, but it’s filling enough.

“Who is this from, Mr. Clay?” Nott asks when he sets a cup down in front of her. Her bright eyes are heavy lidded with fatigue, but she keeps glancing over to check on Caleb, who’s seated at the table beside her.

Caduceus inclines his head toward Jester and then hands her a cup as well. “This would be courtesy of Miss Jester’s handiwork - with some help from the Wildmother, of course.”

“I didn’t mean to kill him, you know,” Jester says before taking a sip of her tea. She wrinkles up her nose and rummages around in her pockets for the remains of some pastry or other to sprinkle in. “I wanted to knock him out so we could ask him some questions but my ax slipped.”

Beau snorts. “Hell of a slip. That was fuckin’ awesome.”

“It was pretty cool, wasn’t it,” Jester agrees. “His head just split right in half like a cantaloupe! I can’t wait to draw it for the Traveller.”

Caduceus passes out the remainder of the tea and then takes his own cup, tucking himself into a corner of the galley. The conversation carries on without him, and he tunes it out in favor of inhaling the steam wafting off of the tea. Even just the scent sends warmth spreading through him, climbing into his bones like wisteria and curling around him. He sends a quick prayer of thanks up to the Wildmother and drinks. Slowly, he feels tension begin to unfurl, like the leaves of a touch-sensitive fern regaining equilibrium.

When the tea is gone, he rinses out his cup and replaces it in the cupboard, half-listening to the chatter around him. They’re discussing next steps, what to do with Marius, half-jokingly commiserating over another town they won’t be able to return to. 

It isn’t a surprise, not really. Caduceus knew what kind of people they were when they’d first showed up in his cemetary and asked for his help. This is where Caduceus is supposed to be; he knows it with the same certainty that he knows that all living things die, that new things are born from their decay. They are perhaps not the sort of people Caduceus would have chosen if given the choice, but he trusts the Wildmother, trusts that she has sent him on the right path. That she has sent the right people to aid him, even as salt water itches behind his ears, even as he recalls that moment of pure terror, alone in the pitch black sea with creatures who would not hesitate to rend his flesh from his bones, waiting breathlessly for rescue from creatures who do not hesitate to do the same.

Violence may be natural, but wanton destruction is something else entirely.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Caduceus says, only belatedly realizing he’s interrupting Beau mid-sentence, “I think I’d like to get some rest. It has been… quite a day.” He makes his way to the sleeping quarters, a chorus of confused goodnights following him through the door.

The sleeping quarters are enclosed, a small room of eight bunks that line the room in pairs. Caduceus removes his armor, piling it in an out-of-the-way corner, and folds himself into one of the bottom bunks. His knees are curled up almost to his chin and the mattress is thin, nothing like the warm soft nest of blankets and furs in his temple, but sleep finds him quickly.

\--

It is far from dreamless. Currents of seawater tangle around his limbs, force themselves down his throat until he’s choking on them. Salt burns his eyes, his nose, his lungs as he fights to draw breath and finds only water. Drowning _hurts_ , more pain than Caduceus can remember, and he knows he has only moments before consciousness fades from him, before his body shuts down and resigns itself to oblivion, his temple abandoned and his forest still ailing.

Caduceus jerks awake with a gasp and the phantom taste of salt water on his tongue. His heart is pounding against his chest, rabbit-fast, and all he can hear is the roar of the rushing ocean, drowning out the even breaths of his sleeping companions, of Nott’s snoring and Yasha’s low muttering in her slumber. Caduceus is not unused to dreams, even unpleasant ones, but they tend to be cryptic and vaguely unsettling, visions from the Wildmother whose meanings he has to tease apart.

This is new.

Caduceus draws a deep breath. His fingers twitch instinctually for his magic, but it hasn’t yet returned from the previous day’s battles. Tea would be ideal, and he spares a wistful thought for his ruined stash, the last remains of all his favorite blossoms from the cemetery. The Wildmother had not seen fit to share how long Caduceus could expect to be away - it is possible that even she does not know. The only remedy then is a few more hours’ sleep, but although his heart has slowed some and he can once again hear Nott’s rumbling snore, he suspects nodding off again is easier said than done.

Perhaps some fresh air then. A few moments gazing up at the sky and meditating on the splendor of the Wildmother’s domain. He’d always been soothed by the stars, knowing there was so much more beyond his little patch of woods.

The night’s chill still hangs in the air and his clothes are still faintly damp, so Caduceus wraps the thin blanket around his shoulders and he creeps quietly out of the sleeping quarters. It’s dark below decks, but when Caduceus makes his way up the stairs (the flowering body no longer lies there, no doubt pitched into the sea several hours ago), dawn is creeping fire-bright over the distant lights of Nicodranas. Silver thread and the faint shimmer of magic catch the weak light that spills onto the ship - Caleb must have set his usual wards before turning in. The sunrise is not yet bright enough to wash out the slivers of moons overhead, but it gives Caduceus just enough light to make out a figure slumped against the bulkhead on the far side of the deck, one hand resting on the wheel.

Fjord’s eyes are closed when Caduceus approaches him. They flicker open briefly, glancing upward beneath heavy lids. There are bruise-colored bags under his eyes and a heavy pull around his mouth that indicates that Fjord has not yet been to bed.

“I wonder,” says Caduceus, softly so Fjord doesn’t startle, “which of your self-imposed responsibilities has you awake at this hour?”

“No one else can sail,” Fjord says. His voice is a low rumble, but his vowels are too sharp, accent slipping in his exhaustion. “Gotta make sure we don’t crash.”

Caduceus glances out at the open ocean before the ship. Lights twinkle distantly - Port Damali, he assumes - but there must be hours at least before they reach it, possibly days. “That doesn’t seem too hard way out here.” It’s a fight to keep the nervous wobble out of his deliberately calm, soothing tone, but he thinks Fjord is probably too tired to catch it. “Why don’t you let someone else take over for a while?” He looks up, spies a gull soaring overhead, tinted pink in the early light. “I’ll ask the birds to warn me if trouble is approaching.”

Fjord inhales deeply through his nose and blows it out through his mouth. “Maybe,” he allows. It’s a concession that goes no further than acknowledgement. Caduceus will have to be a bit more persuasive.

He takes a seat beside Fjord and pulls his blanket a little tighter around himself. After a long moment of silence, he says, “It wasn’t your fault, you know.”

Fjord grunts in response, one shoulder twitching up in a shrug. Acknowledgement and no further. Caduceus isn’t sure even Fjord knows which circumstance he’s rejected absolution for. All of them, probably. The weight of responsibility hangs heavy on Fjord like a millstone, a burden that even magic won’t lift.

Minutes crawl by in silence broken only by the lap of waves against the ship, the creaking of wood as the deck shifts and settles. One by one, the stars fade as the sun climbs higher in the sky behind them, pinks and purples turning golden.

“I recognize that play, by the way,” Fjord says finally. When Caduceus glances over at him, his eyes are still closed, but the corner of his mouth is curved upward, almost approaching a smile.

“Oh?” says Caduceus.

“Seems I’m not the only one awake at this hour. Something on your mind, Mr. Clay?”

“All the usual things, I suppose.” Caduceus says. “Nothing you need trouble yourself with, Mr. Fjord.”

“I’m sure,” Fjord agrees, and his voice is his more typical drawl now, soft and slow like honey. “Might be I don’t mind troubling myself.” He pauses, hesitating briefly as though he might be thinking better of it, but then he continues, “You almost died yesterday. Can’t be easy to make peace with that, even for you.” _Being so acquainted with death_ goes unsaid, but Caduceus hears it all the same.

The thread of Fjord’s own troubles dangles in the space between them, and Caduceus is sorely tempted to tug, to turn the conversation back around. Fjord may not believe it yet, but assurances that he’s not to blame - for any of the things he blames himself for - will begin to germinate within him eventually.

Instead, Caduceus says, “That was… not pleasant.”

“I can imagine,” Fjord says, though Caduceus suspects he can do more than that. “How are you holding up?”

The air smells of salt water, and Caduceus can still taste it, can still feel it prickle at the back of his throat. “I believe I am having second thoughts about this whole venture.”

“Can’t say I blame you. I’ve had a fair number of those myself. Wishin’ you’d stayed in Shady Creek?”

Caduceus thinks fondly of his temple, the quiet, the bright blooms sprouting up through freshly turned earth. “No,” he says. The route may be circuitous, but it will eventually lead him east, to the thing that’s wrong, and he will need these specific people that the Mother has placed in his path in order to fix it. “It is a lot to get used to. I’m not sure I can.”

Fjord huffs out a breath. “No one can. And then one day, you wake up and realize you have.”

“Huh,” Caduceus says. “That doesn’t make much sense.”

“No,” Fjord agrees. “Not much does.”

The sun has risen above the horizon by now, casting golden light over the deck of the ship and drawing shadows where the sail interrupts it. The sky is cloudless, the pale blue of early morning, and Caduceus takes a deep breath. The tang of salt makes his chest seize with the memory, just for a second, before it calms again. He takes another breath and holds it, rolling the taste of it around in his mouth. It’s unpleasant - not like whiskey or milk, but like panic, and Caduceus longs for a hot cup of tea to chase the taste away. 

This is where the Wildmother has sent him, so it must be here that Caduceus is meant to be.

It’s not quite as easy to believe as it once was.


End file.
